


Fides

by wintercealde



Category: Robin Hood (TV)
Genre: M/M, mild dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-31
Updated: 2008-12-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:56:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercealde/pseuds/wintercealde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In his grief, Guy "finds a new energy, a new force" through Prince John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fides

**Author's Note:**

> Written before the start of Season 3, so this isn't quite the canonical Prince John.

  
"Guy!"

Guy clenched his fists. It was all he could do not to slam the heavy door in John's face.

"Guy," John said again in that silk-over-steel voice that soothed as much as it warned. The prince fell in step next to him, walking calmly as if Guy hadn't just stormed out of the hall. "Ignore Vaysey."

"Ig--"

"He does not think of what he does to people," John continued and, while Guy begged to disagree, he did not say so. "He works single-mindedly towards our goal, which is admirable, but he has become somewhat callous." When they rounded the corner, John pushed open the door, which led to his chambers, and beckoned Guy in. He crossed the room to the table where a pitcher of sweet wine stood always, and began pouring.

"Sometimes I fear Vaysey is beginning to grow too self-important. Your trip to the Holy Land was his idea, you know. Wine?"

Guy shook his head. It was too much of a temptation; too easy an escape. It was unwise while he was in the castle and anyways, his sister would be insufferable if she smelt it on him.

"He only sent me a message as you were leaving. Durham thought it a good idea—and he is quite the strategist—but Vaysey seemed to know I would never be comfortable with killing my own brother." Guy hadn't known, in fact, that John wasn't behind the plan. He swallowed against the bitter taste in his mouth.

He stood awkwardly in the room, not knowing what he was supposed to be doing. He wanted to be alone, where he did not have to hide how much he hurt, how much Vaysey's vicious, needling words could still get under his skin, even after all this time. He glanced over at John, who was looking at him over the rim of his cup. Guy dropped his eyes again. John's gaze was hooded, too observant for comfort. Vaysey was sadistic and changeable; while John had the famous Plantagenet temper—and displayed it—he was also thoughtful, calculating, and a figure to be deeply wary of.

John set his cup down, pausing a moment before turning to Guy and crossing the room to him. Though he did not fill any room he was in like his brother did—he was smaller, quieter—he could draw every eye to him with barely a word while remaining seemingly unaware of his power. The details of the room seemed to fall away as Guy watched John come to him, and the prince seemed to catch all of the low light in the room.

John took him by the shoulders and studied him with flat grey eyes Guy could read nothing in.

"Guy," he said again softly, "You are a valuable asset to our cause. I do not want to lose you."

John's hands did not feel as intrusive, as repulsive, as the Sheriff's, but they somehow seemed closer to his body, to get deeper under his skin.

Guy dropped his head; he knew he had little will against persuasion. John did not pull back; he could feel the prince's breath soft against his neck. He did not know if he imagined the feel of lips tracing, ever so lightly, the line of his jaw. His breath hitched at the uncustomary closeness. Only Vaysey, who made his skin crawl, and Isabella, whose well-meaning intentions made her cold, had touched him in the recent past.

John stepped back and slid a hand under Guy's chin. Guy turned his face and found John's there, felt the unexpected warmth of lips barely against his own. He did not move away, but neither did he respond.

John lowered his chin. "Guy." He needed to say no more; Guy knew what he sought. He lifted his eyes.

"You need a moment where you are not thinking about her."

It couldn't sting anymore, but the dull, ever-present ache throbbed. Guy looked away. "That is all I have looked for these past months. A moment where I am not haunted—"

John brought his face back to him, fingers soft but firm. "No. You want to hurt. You revel in your pain. You think that you should hurt worse, that every moment that is not spent in remorse is undeserved. Remember that God is merciful, and that He forgives." John laid his palm along  
Guy's cheek, his fingertips moving lightly along his temples and hairline. "That is between you and Him but now, I need you. I need you here." His eyes held Guy's, both requesting and commanding, both gentle yet threatening.

Guy wasn't sure whether something opened or closed inside him then. This time, when John leaned in, Guy opened his mouth to his.

John's kiss was much like his words. It pulled Guy in, it asked him, it claimed him. He found himself responding to lips that moulded to his, to hands that held him firmly, to the press of a warm body against his own. He was lost; his mind was still locked away in that cold grey place it had inhabited for months, but his body, his traitorous limbs, yielded and warmed to the touch of another human being.

When John drew away Guy took a deep, shuddering breath.

"Take off your gloves."

Guy looked down at his hands. He was loathe to do so, but he did as he was told. He had lost his black gloves, somewhere in the madness in the desert, and had not cared to get another pair. The ones he wore now were unassuming leather; undyed, functional: they hid his hands, those hateful agents. And now his hands were uncovered, exposed for anyone to see. He dropped his gloves on the floor and then John took his hands, pressing palms together between his own. John's hands were dry and cool, surrounding Guy's as a lord's did when his vassal swore fidelity to him. Randomly Guy thought of the supposed powers of a king. His kiss could heal. His hands, laid upon the ill, could cure disease. These could be the hands of a king.

Guy raised his eyes to John's face and again found himself being watched. John raised Guy's right hand to his lips, kissing palm, then wrist. His lips were warm and sensation bloomed beneath them. He did the same to Guy's left hand and wrist. When his hands were dropped, Guy slowly closed and opened his fists, feeling the sudden warmth that spread all the way out to his fingertips.

John placed his hand on the lace of Guy's shirt. He wore whatever had been nearest at hand that morning, dirty or clean—his leather uniform lost or destroyed or pawned, he couldn't remember.

"You should take better care in your appearance."

"I have no one to impress." John merely looked at him, and both knew Guy had said it because it hurt.

John's hand slipped to the belt buckled over Guy's shirt, and he undid it swiftly, letting belt and sword fall to the floor with a clang. "Throw it on the fire."

That brought a reaction. "But I—"

John lay a finger on Guy's lips. With effort, Guy turned away. He crossed to the fireplace and pulled off his shirt. Goosebumps rose on his arms when the cold air hit his skin. He dropped the shirt into the fire and watched as the fibres flared and burned. Then he took off his linen undershirt, grey with use, and added that to the flames. When he turned he could see approval in John's eyes.

"Come here."

Chill and heat fought and flitted over him, the heat of the fire licking over his back; the cold winter chill in the castle causing his chest to tense and his nipples to stiffen. A different heat, internal, pulsed where John had touched him, small points of bright against the leaden dullness that had hung over him since . . . Though he was no more than a few yards from John, the space between them seemed almost untraversable. He knew what he was stepping into, and he did not care—there was little he cared about, nowadays—yet John's scrutiny of his vulnerable state, his exposed body, seemed almost too much to bear. Yet the same bright gaze which froze him in place with its discernment drew him forward, commanding and compelling.

John's fingers traced lightly over Guy's chest, now marked with recent scars, evidence of tavern brawls, stupid fights, carelessness. His touch felt cool and strange, but something in that even gaze, something in the deftness of those hands awoke sensation that Guy felt he no longer had right to. With her gone from the world, so was feeling and pleasure and joy. He struggled against the sensation, trembled, and was left shivering when John turned away to remove his mantle.

"You haven't taken care of yourself."

Guy didn't respond.

"You are a man of deep passions. I can understand that," John said as he shrugged off his embroidered tunic and pulled his fine linen undershirt over his head.

Guy could have moved his limbs mechanically, mindlessly, doing as he was bidden until John spoke again.

"Your boots, Guy. The rest." He still used that same calm tone, but it now held just a bit of a waver. Guy's eyes widened when he recognized the desire in his voice. John, ever watchful, smiled slightly, his eyes shining with lust. The dark draw of being wanted pulsed through Guy, sending energy through his dormant body.

He drew off his boots and hosen with an urgency that now felt strange. When he stood to unlace his trousers John was there again, pulling him close, one hand around his neck to draw him close, the other sliding its way down his chest, his side, lingering at his hip and then pushing down into Guy's trousers. Guy found himself arching forward, instinctively responding to John's firm touch, and suddenly they were skin-to-skin.

Guy was startled at the force of his own response, of his need. For once, he realized, for the first time in a very long time, there was someone looking at _him_. Not at what he had done, not, for the moment, at what he could be made to do. There had been nothing but dirt and ash since the Holy Land, nothing but self-loathing and despair; _he_ had been subsumed by _what he had done_ , or at least he felt he ought to be. There was nothing he could do to atone for that monstrous act, that instinctive response that had revealed just what and who he was. One moment had dominated his life for the past four months but here, suddenly, was someone who had drawn back the curtain, who had forced Guy to look beyond, if only for a short while, that morass of self-recrimination and purposelessness.

John pressed his palm against Guy, his fingers drawing heat, tension, need through Guy's body. Guy reached out, curving his arm along John's side and taking hold of his shoulder. A wave of— _pleasure_ coursed through him and he leaned his head on John's shoulder, letting the powerful feeling take him over. John's arm jerked back and Guy heard the _zip_ of leather thongs sliding through their holes. Then his hands were on Guy's hips moving down, down, and his arms went too and his body and his _mouth_ —

Guy's world contracted abruptly as John's lips closed around his cock. Sensation burst behind his eyes as his lord demonstrated facility with lips, tongue, breath; sucking and teasing, tightening and licking. Guy felt behind him for the bedpost and held on hard. His knees were suddenly weak beneath him.

When a woman sucked his cock he felt powerful, dominant, a man. Yet John, skillful as any whore, made him feel vulnerable. Though Guy was in a position of power, John held complete sway over him; Guy's attention was not so much on himself or what was happening, but on John, and the things he made Guy feel. And he still wasn't sure what the hell this was, if something was being asked of him, or his loyalty was being tested—but with John's tongue doing _that_ and his lips moving like _that_ it was too hard to sort anything out in his head.

As John's mouth sent him spiraling into long-forgotten heights, his hands moved over him—running over his chest, stroking his thigh, cupping his arse, never stopping, never letting him get completely lost in sensation. Yet they did not hold him back; Guy felt a ball of white-hot heat gathering force in the pit of his stomach and, with a deft movement of John's tongue and lips so tight, oh tight, he felt it explode outward, rocking his body and setting every part of him aflame. His lord's fingers and tongue and mouth slipped and slid over him and sucked him down, down, drawing from him a cry that seemed to rise from his very bones. He arched, and John moved with him, working to the end of his climax.

Guy slumped, boneless, and John guided him back to the edge of the bed. He stood, wiping a hand over his mouth, but when he leaned forward Guy could still taste himself on John's lips. John continued to run his hands over him, through his hair and over his body, prolonging the warm tingling that popped and fizzed on Guy's skin.

When he was lucid again, yet still floating in a haze of pleasure, John pushed him back until he was fully sitting on the bed. Then he ran his hands over Guy's thighs, gently spreading them and working his way in, pressing close. Guy did not need to be prompted to bend his head. He met John's lips of his own volition, returning his kisses with equal languorous energy. He lifted a hand to run through John's hair; John tangled his fingers through those of Guy's other hand, guiding them down to his cock.

"What do you want of me?" Guy asked, stroking his hand down John's shaft.

"Hmm," he replied, evidently drawing himself back to reality. "A good fuck while my wife is too ill with child. If I father another—mmm—bastard before she's had a whelp of her own she may go mad." John opened his eyes, trailed a hand down Guy's thigh. “A chance to have this . . ."

He glanced up and Guy felt that frisson again at the intensity that shone in John's eyes. As he gathered his wits around him again he felt clearer, calmer than he'd been for a long while, his mind and senses all focused on the man before him.

"Not every decision is political, you know."

Guy watched him steadily, slowly circling his thumb around the tip of John's cock.

"Not to say this one's not," John conceded, "but it has . . . many . . . perks."

"What I want from you," he continued, his eyes clearing and focusing on Guy, "right now, is just this." He placed two fingers on Guy's lower lip. Guy opened his mouth to allow them entrance and he swept his tongue slowly over the tips. John's eyelids lowered with pleasure and Guy curled his tongue around them again, taking them deeper into his mouth and sucking. And then they were gone.

“Turn around.”

There was a moment before comprehension set in and then Guy felt his will, newly awakened, flame up within him. He had conceded many, many things; he had done things he'd never thought himself capable of, but this—

His reaction must have shown on his face; anyways his hand had stopped. John's gaze flicked languidly up his body, but when it met his eyes it was no less commanding than it was at the head of the council table. A cool smile curved over his lips, then he leaned forward, taking Guy's chin in his free hand. His words held no hint of that smile, they were forged from steel, yet still gilded with lust. "I have woken you, I shall shape you, you are _mine_."

Guy clamped his jaw shut; he met John's gaze evenly. Yet even as he felt emotion—anger—rise within him he was conscious of John's fingers tracing lightly over his skin, drawing forth tendrils of desire. He still had a choice, but he already knew he wouldn't run. He had nowhere to run to. John could have him if he really wanted him, but what he really wanted was Guy's assent. He knew the feeling.

John watched him steadily. His eyes were calculating but not judging; they urged but did not threaten. It was not quite simple lust, but it was much more than single-minded ambition. And that was what drew Guy in.

Guy slipped his hand up, over John's thigh, and down to cup his arse. If he were going to do this, it would be his choice, not simply numb acquiescence, not naïve trust. Not anymore. He dropped his head, tilting it up under John's chin, and kissed him hard. He pressed kisses, wet, biting, down along John's neck. He could feel the pulse beneath his lips speed. A movement of his hand just _there_ and John's breath hitched. Guy smiled to himself in satisfaction.

Then he did as his lord commanded him.  



End file.
